Wasteland Panorama


Whiskey dick withers
a vessel of sodium chloride
in a vandal’s hands,
bogged with convenience
for its own sweet sake.
Meanwhile, a congress

of centipedes convenes
and calls for an embargo
against everything with less
than 100 legs. The city begins
to diminish within a horizon
of stone, uttering its final mockery

to the sun hung up like a mirror,
some obscene reflective thing.
A girl wearing a dusty
bedspread plucks feathers
from the sidewalk
and stuffs them into a

mannequin head she probably
also found on the sidewalk.
Another girl walks
by with a train of plywood dentures
held together by a thin
green ribbon, and her eyes

are also green, but not the same
green as the ribbon. Her coat
is made of electrons.
I wonder where they’re going,
but not where they’re coming from.
I agitate my pupils

just a moment longer
and unravel spools of steel
wool to spread over
my front porch. This place
has always seemed lacking
in enchantments.

The traffic never stops here.
Everybody paints cuneiform
on their windows;
even the church windows.
And when it rains,
you had better believe it fucking rains.

-r. miller


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